Short story: Derriere I know you?
‘After a couple of weeks feasting aimlessly on sweet delights, I do the 90 degree turn in the mirror and there it is.’
Whenever I gain weight it always tends to appear on my bottom. Not a bad thing, some men would say, but for me it’s absolutely mortifying and remarkably un-professional.
After a couple of weeks feasting aimlessly on sweet delights, I do the routine 90 degree turn in the mirror and there it is, a wider, higher, fleshy load staring right back at me. A million sighs follow simultaneously and I just know that it’s time to do the 10 day detox of apple juice and water.
Why on earth do I do this to myself? I often ask, I mean I feel amazing after I’ve completed my detox, I have a spring in my step, my cheek bones protrude and the extra tyres which have acutely formed around my derriere are gone. To celebrate the loss, I treat myself to a hearty three course meal with a friend and promise that I will get back to eating healthily the next day. Which might I add is always the plan when I first set out to cleanse my gracious temple.
Day three after the detox, I have had one fine dining experience, two cupcakes and a grande sized skinny hot chocolate. Tomorrow is definitely the day I promise myself. I mean so much for willpower, what is wrong with me? I must be ill I tell myself, again promising that tomorrow is the day.
Waking up the next morning is easy, I have my head screwed on and I am determined to stick with the plan in motion. Nil by mouth until further notice, as I make my carefree journey to work I manage to look at about twenty women’s bottoms just for research and compare them to mine. I feel doubt as a small voice tells me it isn’t that big in comparison. Still strong willed I continue my journey and bury myself in a copy of V magazine where I’m in awe of the visibly confident new female rap artist Nicki Minaj, mostly covered in body paint, posing so freely with her curvaceous body on display.
Tempted to knock my head again the condensation ridden window of the train, I compose myself deciding that I’m quite happy to eat healthily while treating myself to some odd sugar here and there. I mean, I’m curvaceous and proud I smile, shaking my head while thinking of all the stories I’ve read about women putting themselves through harmful surgeries to get a more generous behind.
With my mind made up, I almost gleefully skip off my train, wondering if my trusty colleague Vanessa* brought in her usual round of all butter croissants. She better had, I mean this was a celebration after all. Well, one confined to just me but a celebration all the same. As I walked through the office, dumped my bag on the desk, I greeted all my team with a smile and shared a few jokes as usual well, that was until I got a tap on my shoulder from the token male in our predominantly female team. ‘Oh my gosh.’ he exclaims; in a rather high pitched voice, ‘Look at your booty, woah.’ I take a gulp and nervously ask; ‘what’s that supposed to mean?’ ‘Nothing...nothing at all.’ He says, taking in my painful expression. ‘It just reminded me to ask you, if you had seen the new Nicki Minaj video?’
Alarm bells ringing, I wondered if it could get any worse. ‘No.’ I smiled as I watched invisible smoke perforate from my nostrils. ‘No, I haven’t.’
‘Vanessa*, forget those croissants.’ I stammer. Leaving my desk as I walk confidently to the toilet, bursting through the door, I look in the mirror, dust myself off and say ‘apple juice and water here I come after all.’
*Name changed to protect identity
